


Drag

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Self-Lubrication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 15:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4752365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas wastes Thranduil’s morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drag

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for deceittrickerylies’s “Thrandolas (modern AU) established relationship where lazy morning sex happens?” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s still tugging his tie into place when he leaves the washroom, and the steam flitters through the open door, revealing the cooler air of the bedroom. The fan’s still running, nearly silent, but not completely so to Thranduil’s sharpened ears. He delayed too long in the shower, hoping a certain someone would join him, but instead he had to wash his own yellow-white hair and porcelain skin. He’s already toweled down, blow dried and combed his long mane into place, dressed immaculately in a crisp, black suit, and all that’s left is to slip into the polished shoes waiting four floors down in the lobby of his manor. He half expects his son to have left without him, down in the waiting limo with an insolent lack of proper grooming.

Instead, he finds Legolas sprawled out in bed, exactly where Thranduil left him. Thranduil’s fingers fall from his own throat—his collar is now the least of his worries. The bay windows let in a stream of fair sunlight that wash elegantly over Legolas’ back, his hair swept aside, as long and silken as his father’s. The white sheets only barely cover his plump rear, the dip of his spine exposed and his broad shoulders dimpled from the stretch of his taut arms. Cheek buried in a plush pillow, Legolas dawns a languid grin. His blue eyes sweep over Thranduil’s form, obviously appreciative. 

Thranduil frowns at his beloved brat and drawls coldly, “Have you forgotten the party we’re expected to be at in half an hour?”

Legolas has the nerve to snort, “You don’t even like Galadriel.” It’s true, but there are a good many people Thranduil doesn’t like, and they’re too high-profile a family to have the luxury of snubbing them all. Half the city will hear of it if he doesn’t attend, and more so will learn if he does—Elrond will surely be there, and the three of them attract the media like nothing else. At least there’ll be wine, and there’s always a certain pleasure that comes with presenting his gorgeous heir. 

When Legolas is well behaved, anyway. Which is entirely too rare. Merely to keep him in line, Thranduil ignores the observation and counters, “There will be a young man there I had planned to introduce you to. I’d hoped it would finally get you out of my hair.” 

Legolas lifts an eyebrow, but his grin doesn’t falter. He takes in a deep breath, letting his eyes flutter closed in the remnants of sleep, perhaps inhaling Thranduil’s lingering cologne off his pillow. Then Legolas murmurs, “That Aragorn guy you mentioned? And here you spent so much time telling me not to dally with mere, unworthy mortals...”

Thranduil would rather have Legolas with no one. He’s never been particularly good at sharing. But he does _love_ Legolas, and he does want what’s best for his son. He doesn’t have to tell Legolas that their high profile brings with it certain stresses. The press loves their lewd speculations, forgetting entirely that human standards bear little weight in an Elven life. It forces Thranduil and Legolas into the paranoia of privacy, as mortals don’t understand that relationships are quite different when feelings develop independently over centuries. Perhaps a paramour, one too flimsy and fleeting to be any true competition, could buy Legolas at least momentary relief. Thranduil is patient; he could wait such a diversion out. 

But Legolas sees through all the things Thranduil doesn’t say, and he comments idly, “Besides, I know you would miss me terribly if I left. I have no wish to leave you lonely, Ada.”

Thranduil parts his lips, intent on an answer and a scolding, but the ring of his cell interrupts him. He glances to where their two phones lie on the nightstand, side by side. Legolas stretches to reach Thranduil’s, then rolls and scoots back to lean in the pillows. The digital light flickers over his face, his thumbs flying across the miniature keyboard, and he relays, “It’s Tauriel. The limo’s up front.”

“Do you intend to get in it naked?” Thranduil asks dryly. Legolas types in a quick reply.

Without looking up, Legolas says, “You pay her well. She won’t mind waiting an hour.” And he puts the phone back as though that’s that. 

Now icy, Thranduil growls, “You are trying my patience, Legolas.” Legolas only smirks, sinking back into the bed. He rolls onto his stomach again, deliberately thrusting his round ass in the air. It’s pert but tight, and he has to squirm to make it jiggle, drawing Thranduil’s eyes.

Filthy and crude, Legolas purrs, “Punish me, Ada.” He spreads his legs, forcing the sheets to slip down his thighs, and all hope of looking elsewhere flutters out the window. Legolas’ tight balls are cushioned against the mattress, pink and hairless, his cock hidden from view but his cheeks inviting enough. He flexes them, likely trying to show off his puckered hole, and Thranduil finally sighs, giving in. He _will_ punish Legolas for this, but in due time. 

It’s true that he doesn’t care for Galadriel anyway. Her parties are always dull and just thinly veiled excuses to trick certain old men into her bed. Though mortals love to clamour for her splendor, she can offer nothing so tempting as the luscious sight already in Thranduil’s keep. He comes toward it, tugging the black jacket from his shoulders. He tosses it aside as he climbs onto the bed, and he loosens his tie but doesn’t discard it. 

He throws a leg over Legolas’ thighs to straddle them, and then he lowers down with his entire body, draping over Legolas like the suit he should be in. Thranduil sweeps a few stray strands of blond hair aside to expose Legolas’ shoulder and presses a firm kiss into it, murmuring against Legolas’ warm flesh, “It seems I must indeed stay, if only to discipline my little brat. And here I had thought you fine enough to show off on my arm, and even planned to gift you mortal flesh...”

“Another man is no gift when I already have you,” Legolas murmurs, a slight hitch noticeable in his breath as Thranduil’s hands stray beneath his chest. His answer is pleasing, but not enough to spare him. Thranduil still tugs the tie from his neck and finds his son’s shoulders, running down Legolas’ shapely arms to his thin wrists, which Thranduil draws together above his head. To his credit, Legolas doesn’t fight—he knows he’s been _bad_. He allows Thranduil to bind him to the headboard with the silver tie and several harsh knots. They’ll likely cause bruising by the time they’re done, but Legolas’ Elven skin will heal quickly, and his warrior’s threshold will allow him to take it. He’s an impressive specimen, if insolent at times. 

He thrusts his rear into Thranduil’s waiting crotch and moans, “ _Ada_...” Thranduil digs greedy teeth into his shoulder to appease him, biting just short of drawing blood to make Legolas cry out and writhe. When Thranduil’s pulled out, he laves over the pink wound once with his tongue, then diverts his attention south. He keeps one hand flat against Legolas’ chest, and the other traces down the supple curves of Legolas’ body, in between his cheeks. Thranduil isn’t particularly surprised to find a bead of moisture there. He runs one finger hard between Legolas’ cleft, then rubs a small circle around the furrowed brim, and more liquid squelches out to meet him. Legolas is always wet for him, as an elf only is with true want. It speaks to the intensity of their bond that when Thranduil’s finger pops inside, it goes slick and easy. 

Legolas still groans. He still squirms, but he’s ready, wantonly thrusting back onto Thranduil’s finger with little pleas and stray tugs at his bonds. He’s already dripping wet and stretched enough to take the cock his body seems built for, but Thranduil enjoys fingering him for a few torturous minutes anyway, just to hear his whimpers. Each press of his rear along Thranduil’s crotch makes Thranduil harder, until he simply can’t wait any longer. 

It seems a pity to sully his suit, but it would be a greater waste to take the time to shed it now. Thranduil pulls his finger free to unfasten his pants, his other hand petting Legolas’ chest, toying with Legolas’ rosy nipples. Legolas has always been sensitive there, and he hisses when Thranduil pinches him, gasps when Thranduil tugs him, whines when Thranduil twists. He can come from having his nipples sucked alone, but that’s a delicacies for days when he’s been _good_ , and for now, Thranduil keeps him face down. This is no full production; just the sticky morning sex Legolas’ laziness has sucked his father into. 

As soon as Thranduil lines up, Legolas is trying to flex his hole open, thighs straining to lift his ass and impale himself on Thranduil’s hard cock. Thranduil allows it and slips inside without ceremony. It’s a tight squeeze, even opened as it is, and the velvet-soft channel seems to meld to him. Legolas turns his face into the pillow, muffling his cries, and Thranduil simply shudders and luxuriates it that familiar _pleasure_ , the pressure, the heat, the suction—Legolas is always _perfect_.

Legolas takes him to the hilt, until they’re flush together, Thranduil sprawled out atop him, heavy and bittersweet. This is _far_ better than anything else the day could offer, but he can’t always afford to be idle. Perhaps he’s pampered his prince too much. Legolas has become spoiled, and Thranduil too weak to fight him. Yet Legolas is the first to bid, “Ada, please, _move_.”

Thranduil lays a kiss on Legolas’ cheek and does, not because his darling boy asked but because he _needs_ to. He slips partially out, pushes back in, slow, at first, and holding Legolas down by the hips to force him to accept the difficult pace. Legolas can ride him like a feral animal, but this is better for a punishment: refusing to fuck him hard. Legolas trembles in Thranduil’s grasp, fit and strong, but Thranduil’s stronger. He pins Legolas down and works into a gradual, steady rhythm, _deep_ but languid. 

Legolas whines. He tugs at his bound wrists but not enough to rip them free. When he tries to twist his head around to kiss Thranduil properly, Thranduil merely chuckles and bites into the back of his neck. Legolas makes a terrible keening sound, but Thranduil remains untouchable and harsh, his hips grinding Legolas obediently down into the mattress. 

Legolas feels _good_ , so impossibly _wonderful_. His ass clenches over and over to try and seduce Thranduil into harder thrusts, but to no avail. His body, for all its many years, is still young and ripe in Thranduil’s eager hands, and Thranduil explores all of it, even though he has this magnificent expanse memorized. The only place he doesn’t touch is Legolas’ cock, long and hard against the sheets. Legolas tries to rut himself to competition, but Thranduil makes stern fists in his hips and holds him still, so that the only pleasure he receives is from being filled with Thranduil’s cock. He clenches all the harder to compensate, channel trembling almost violently around each thrust. Only when Legolas whimpers to finally give in, hips going meekly still, does Thranduil spare his hands again to continue tracing Legolas’ body. He twists one set of fingers in Legolas’ hair, tugging it aside so he can nip at Legolas’ face, though he dodges every kiss Legolas tries to return. 

It’s only a brunch party, and they’ll never make it—Thranduil’s resigned to that, and he takes every minute out on Legolas. He makes it _last_ , goes on and own, tempting Legolas to the edge but never allowing him release. An hour in, Thranduil runs his tongue along the back of Legolas’ ear and purrs, “If I untie your wrists, will you behave for me?”

Legolas murmurs, hoarse and obedient, “Yes, Ada. I will be good.” He sounds, indeed, thoroughly tamed, but Thranduil knows that Legolas is a horse that must be broken in again and again. Thranduil unknots his tie, but he leaves it strewn across the pillows in case he should have need of it again. Legolas stretches his arms out, sighing in relief, though Thranduil gives him no pause and makes love to him right through it. Legolas lets his hands fall to the bed, fists them there lightly, with shallow rings of pink around each wrist. He remains as he is, though his hips twitch again, and Thranduil _feels_ his want to move. Lying still is a small order. In the end, he’s gotten what he wanted: his father sheathed inside him. 

Twice, the cell rings again, but Thranduil ignores it both times, and Legolas moans louder to try and cover it, to try and keep Thranduil’s attention on him. There’s no need. Once Thranduil’s buried his thick cock in Legolas’ delightful ass, he intends to take his time, and nothing could tear him away. He enjoys himself, delaying his own pleasure to draw this out, and finally, Legolas breaks again, and whimpers a tiny, breathless, “Ada, _please_.”

It’s enough for Thranduil. He buries his face in the crux of Legolas’ shoulder, wraps his arms tight around his son and slams home, bursting to fill Legolas with a quick rush of seed and a fierce hiss. Legolas cries out, writhing suddenly in Thranduil’s merciless grasp. Thranduil gives several more thrusts, the hardest of all, pounding his release inside. Only when he’s finished does he grab Legolas’ cock, pumping it twice to draw it to an end. Legolas screams when he comes, painting the sheets and his father’s fingers while his ass spasms wildly around Thranduil’s still-buried cock. Legolas shudders, until he’s slumped and panting, skin boiling hot and face flushed. He looks utterly breathtaking. Thranduil fondly pets his back, then lifts to slip out. 

As soon as Thranduil’s rolled over, settled along the mattress with one leg twisted in the sheets, Legolas sidles up to him. Legolas tosses one leg over his, sticky stomach getting on Thranduil’s shirt, an arm tossed across him. Happily but laboured, Legolas sighs, “You’re still the king of sex, Ada.” Thranduil snorts but lifts a hand to affectionately stroke through Legolas’ hair. With the other, he collects his cell.

One-handed, because the other is busy playing with Legolas, Thranduil types Tauriel a quick message to send Galadriel flowers and to make some excuse for their absence. As he puts the cell back after, he notices Legolas’ vibrating, on a low enough setting not to rattle much past their quickened pulses. 

He picks it up only to tilt the screen towards himself, muttering aloud, “Who’s Gimli?”

“No one!” Legolas instantly chirps, suddenly alive again, and he quickly stretches half atop Thranduil to snatch the phone away. He’s rolled over again in a heartbeat, his back to Thranduil and his shoulders hiding the screen. So naturally, Thranduil wraps around him, struggling to see the phone, and they work into a fight before the real punishment, where Legolas earns more than just the binding of his wrists and the wild romp he was looking for.


End file.
